Dreams and Nightmares
by Known Continuum
Summary: Trying to save himself, a potion goes wrong and transforms Harry from human to something else-and then he ends up in Lord Voldemort's uncharacteristic care. LVHP, slash.
1. Chapter 1

As Vernon Dursley turned off the lamp in the cozy comfort of his living room, stomping up the stairs to retire to his bedroom for the night, he was unaware of the young Wizard in the cupboard beneath the stairs, frustrated he was no longer getting the light beneath the door to read his potions book. It had been days, and his injuries had not lessoned, most of his skin lined with welts, bruises and cuts, body too thin with protruding bones. He could trace his fingertips over his ribs, count them, grip the edge of each individual one, though he quickly found himself nauseated from such treatment to himself; it'd draw his attention to his sunken cheeks, where a bruise lined his jaw, a both top and bottom lip split, eyes lined with black and emerald irises dulled. The potions book was open to a list of ingredients needed for a healing remedy, and Harry had every intention of making it—he was growing the ingredients in Petunia's garden, though most of them were mature and ready to be harvested. Just in time, too, because the fingers on his right hand were starting to black from the infection that set in from being broken for far too long.

Sitting up in his cupboard—only to remember there was far less room because he wasn't as small as his ten year old self used to be—the Gryffindor rubbed at bruised eyes with his left hand, sighing. With Vernon in bed for the night, he only needed to wait an hour before he could leave his little cell and go collect the needed ingredients, and maybe, if he was feeling particularly brave, hide in the bathroom to finish reading up on the potion. He was so close to completion, yet, a dark, whining voice locked in the back of his head asked why he was even bothering. It would ease the nearly never ending pain—it even haunted his sleep, his dreams—but how long until he was beaten and broken again? Surely Petunia and Vernon would notice his injuries vanished overnight, quite literally. They would accuse him of using the 'M' word, and beat him again, possibly worse. They would search his cupboard, see he'd taken one of Petunia's older bowls and had a potions book along with one on wandless magic. He'd be beaten more and his books burned. Could he pay that price, for a small reprieve? Suffer worse injuries for just a few hours of not feeling pain, of peace?

Yes. Humans were, by nature, selfish creatures, and though Harry often acted otherwise, he was just as selfish as the others. He wanted to feel normal again, wanted to forget the constant knowledge that any day now, he could die from the internal injuries he suspected he had, the dehydration, the hunger. He wanted to stop feeling pain. As he waited for time to pass, Harry contemplated how Fate hurled painful hurdles at him time after time. It started when his parents were murdered, and just went downhill from there. Those who cared for him were ripped away before he could really form attachments, and those who he thought cared for him didn't really, not when he really needed it. He was in a Muggle house, beaten and treated like a slave, and where were Ron and Hermione? Where was Dumbledore? Wasn't it Dumbledore who left him there in the first place, and never bothered to check on him? When he came back to school each year, his health was pitiful, bruises and broken bones, malnutrition, yet no one ever asked. No one ever just said, "Hey Harry, how are you?" and wanted to generally know about his head. It was always what he planned to do about the Dark Lord. What was his plan of action, how would he save the Wizarding World.

That dark voice reminded him he didn't want to save the world anymore; reminded him he once thought about going to the Dark Lord, feigning fear, and hoped to be killed on the spot. He read somewhere, that the Killing Curse was quick, painless. Yet, his Gryffindor morals immediately frowned upon the idea; he couldn't abandon his fellow Wizards and Witches. He had to protect the weak, defend another's honor, and all that.

When an hour and a half had passed, Harry moved around in the cupboard as quietly as possible, whispering the wandless spell to unlock the door. His entire body ached, each movement causing an agonizing wave of pain to rush over his bonds, his muscle. Nothing was spared. With the door open, he stood up, biting back whimpers while trying not to break the crusted wounds on his split lips; Harry wouldn't dare make a sound and risk waking his uncle. Using the wall for support, barely able to stand on his own two feet and keep his knees from buckling. Limping his way to the back door, he wandlessly unlocked it before quietly pulling it open and flicking the back light on. Going down the steps slowly, his right kneecap—nearly smashed—buckled and his heart seemed to stop in his chest. It was over before he knew it, his body lying in the wet grass as pain shot through him in spasms, his breathing shallow before he choked up blood, spitting it out and whimpering at the strong iron taste.

::Hatchling, speak.:: a low hiss came out, Harry barely able to hear it over the pounding in his head. Did he hit it on something? Or was he dying? Head lifting, he could barely see the skinny garden snake in the shadowy grass, looking at him with black eyes. ::I was worried. I thought those filth killed you with a shovel.:: Despite the pain, the Wizard still managed a chuckle, even if it hurt his lung and ribs. Shovel was a common way of death for garden snakes, but Harry wouldn't put it past Vernon to use such a weapon, then bury him with it in the back yard like some pet. It was a morbid thought, but he found himself rather emotionless towards the thought in general.

::I-I am f-fine, Ki'the.:: With his left hand he reached to rub the snake's head, smiling at the pleased hiss. Pulling his hand away, Harry struggled to his feet in the grass, trying not to put what little body mass he had on broken or too damaged limps; it took several minutes, his breathing reduced to rasps as his thoughts were fogged over with pain, eyes barely able to focus. But he was up, and all he needed were the medicinal ingredients—then he'd be able to make the potion, and he'd be healthy again. He could breathe without worrying about choking on blood or his lungs filling with the viscous liquid. He could walk without needing to limp or wince. He could think without the haze of pain. Eager, excited even, to complete the poition, he moved to the garden with obnoxious, rasping breathes and collapsed to the ground, very aware of Ki'the slithering to his side to where his left hand carefully uprooted the ingredients. The snake flickered his forked tongue out, licking the bloodied skin.

::You are not well, hatchling.:: the snake spoke, the familiarity of parseltongue, something so much easier to speak than English.

::I-I'll b-be fi-fine,:: he started, realizing he sounded like a broken record. How many times did he tell Ki'the he'd be all right (as the snake was the only one who cared—possibly only because he brought the garden snake the dead insects from his cupboard)? How many times did he tell himself that? Just another day, just another beating. He would survive. He survived the Killing Curse, he survived a Dark Lord's obsession with his death. He was the bloody Boy-Who-Lived. Even when he wanted death it wouldn't come. ::J-just need to-to make… this potion.::

::It will make you better?:: Harry nodded, but kept to himself that it wouldn't last. After he took the potion, it'd be a matter of hours before they discovered he was perfect and healthy, and that he used magic to heal himself.

Finally getting all the ingredients gathered in his left hand, he pet Ki'the one last time and bade him good night, before slowly, so very slowly, climbing the stairs like they were a mountain and he was a child. Each lift of his leg brought both the limb and his spine mind crushing agony, and he was certain he wouldn't make it up the stairs. But he did. Harry made it to the top and shut the door, locking it, and making his way to the cupboard, getting the bowl and book and going to the kitchen table where he could see after flipping the light on. His vision was blurred, even with his glasses, but he was certain he added the ingredients right. After mixing the bowl for as long as the book told him to, he took a vial and filled it, before eagerly bringing it to his lips. Downing the purple liquid, he waited for the effects to take place. The familiar feeling of bones snapping into place, bruises healing and cuts sewing back up.

However, what started as a small burning sensation quickly grew into his body becoming engulfed in an inferno, skin on fire as a tingling sensation crawled over his skin, bringing him to his knees as he pitifully grabbed onto the table for support, knocking the bowl off the table as he pushed a chair over. His vision was blurring, only colors apparent to him as his breathing became harder and harder, until he felt like he was suffocating, his body crumpling on the ground in violent seizures. Darkness clawed at the edge of his mind, until he let out a pained keen and lost unconsciousness.

It seemed like years before Harry regained himself, his mind coming back as the fog of darkness dissipated. He was stiff, sore, and still felt hotter than anything he'd ever encountered before—but somehow, it felt natural. Yet… the pain was still there. Not as powerful and overwhelming as before, but it was still present. Though he had yet to open his eyes, he could hear someone coming downstairs and his mind reeled immediately. He was in the middle of the dining room, potion book out and table in chaos. Petunia and Vernon were going to be livid, possibly kill him. He'd left his cupboard without permission, and was doing magic related things. Screaming cut into his thoughts, and it was only then that his eyes burst open—immediately realizing he didn't have his glasses on his face, yet could see perfectly—finding Petunia a few feet away, still screaming with eyes wide. Instantly, Harry moved to pick himself up, finding his right was still just as useless, though realized something: he had feathers. His arms—no, _wings_—moved in front of him, his own panic taking over as his mind blocked out his aunt. What happened? Immediately he craned his head down, only to discover his neck was longer. He was covered in feathers, and small. The feathers were a brilliant orange, gold and red combination, though tinged with a silvery liquid—blood?

Before he could examine himself more or grasp what was going on—he had feathers!—Petunia had grabbed a broom and was inching towards him and wielding it like a weapon. Didn't she recognize him? No, no, of course she didn't—he was a bird!

The potion, it had to be the potion. He must not have done something right.

She swung at him, instincts making Harry flap his wings despite the pain it brought his right one as his body lurched back and he gave an distressed squawk—was that really him? Petunia screamed something and swung again, this time hitting Harry and throwing him to the side into the wall. Terrified, confused, and certain he was going to die via broom in the form of some bird, panic coursed thickly through his body along with adrenaline, before suddenly he was on fire. He could see it in his peripheral vision, and Petunia shouted "fire" repeatedly. Instinctually, Harry threw himself to the floor, rolling despite the immense pain that racked his bird body. He didn't realize, however, that as the fire engulfed him, it didn't hurt him one bit, nor did it raise his temperature. All the pain was from his old injuries from the Dursley's abuse.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Harry stopped rolling when he realized all he was doing was agitating injuries, and he wasn't dead yet. Surely the fire would have killed him by now? Waiting, he blinked his eyes open to find he was in grass, and apparently, the middle of nowhere. Also, he was not on fire anymore.

Anxiety and stress flickered through his mind; _what was going on_? He was a bird, he had just been on fire, but now he wasn't, yet still a bird! This had to be a dream, that's it. The potion knocked him out, and this was all a very, very bizarre dream. As the now-bird Harry struggled to his feet—which were taloned, digging into the dirt—and looked around, the dark voice in the back of his head hissing this wasn't a dream.

Trying to tame the panic that was dangerously close to making him have an emotional breakdown, Harry attempted to think logically, to calm down and just breathe.

Bloody hell he had a beak!

Body convulsing, Harry's head whipped around, and it was then he caught sight of the long tail that feathered out behind him—almost as long as a peacocks, but a wild assortment of fiery colors. A ping of familiarity hit him—Dumbledore's Phoenix, Fawkes had a tail like that.

Fawkes was a combination of red, gold, and orange.

Fawkes burst into flames without getting hurt.

Oh, Merlin, he was a Phoenix! Sharp eyes surveyed his small body, the colorful feathers, the silvery blood that decorated them, the long tail and the naturally hot temperature. The potion had gone wrong, that was the only plausible cause of his current… crisis. It wasn't just a problem. It wasn't a dilemma. It was a full blown crisis. He was a bloody bird! He couldn't do magic, he couldn't turn himself back, he couldn't tell anyone what happened! Not to mention, he was injured! His wing was broken, so he couldn't fly. Not that he even knew how. Who knew how long it'd take for him to bleed out, and he wasn't even sure how grave his injuries were. The naturally high heat his body was producing soothed the ache and made him forget.

Hearing a sound that was not from his panicking in the grass, Harry stilled while his head swiveled, looking in the opposite direction, only to feel his feathers seemingly ruffle in cold dread. He recognized the woman slowly approaching him, the slender body, high cheek bones, dark eyes and black, streaked hair. Narcissa Malfoy. She wasn't likely to hit him with a broom, she was probably going to curse him, and he had absolutely no way of defending himself or blocking the curse. He couldn't even fly away!

"Now, now, I won't hurt you," the woman cooed softly, a smile gracing her face as she slowly approached the now trembling Phoenix. Harry looked around wildly, before trying to hop forward, anything to escape while trying to pretend he didn't look hopelessly pathetic in the process. His legs weren't broken or fractured, but both knee joints were weak and hurt to bend, and hoping seemed more instinctual to him than trying to walk. He ignored the pressure it put on the thin leg structures he now possessed, and glanced backwards only to realize she was right there, and had removed her cloak leaving her in an evening gown. Harry let out a sound of his displeasure as it was suddenly thrown over his entire body and her petite arms locked around him, lifting him up. He wasn't very big, so she didn't have a problem, but he was completely restrained and blinded, causing panic to surge forward as he bucked and tried to get free. The familiar pull of an apparition suddenly overcame him, only to disappear seconds later as a door opened and Narcissa moved.

"Narcissa, what—"

"It's a Phoenix, Lucius," the woman explained, excited. "He is gravely injured, however. I brought him home to treat. Perhaps he will bless us when he is healthy again." Harry was not blessing anyone—especially not a Malfoy! Instincts to kick and dig his talons into something overtook him, just as the instinct to bite surged to the front of his mind; but the cloak covering his body was hindering him. How pathetic, to be stopped by fabric!

"Our Lord is here—take him to my study, I don't want to disturb him." Lucius' words had Harry freezing solid, going pathetically limp in Narcissa's arms as fear clutched at his being again. He was weak, hurt, defenseless, and only a few rooms away from the very man obsessed with killing him. Wasn't that what part of him had asked for? To end the seemingly endless abuse and pain? Voldemort would gladly put him out of his misery, a quick Avada Kedavra spell, and Harry would no longer be the Boy-Who-Lived. Would death be peaceful? Painless, free of the expectations on his shoulder to save the Wizarding world? It was almost like a calling. He wouldn't be a stupid bird in death. He wouldn't have to deal with a Dark Wizard trying to kill him every second of every hour of every day. He would be… free.

While the idea of freedom was exhilarating, the sinking ability of abandoning the magic world was unpleasant and felt like a heavy chain around his heart.

Feeling Narcissa move again, he remained limp in her arms, too tired to fight anymore. If he was killed, well, it's not like he asked Voldemort to do it. He didn't let the world down, it was just that he was weak, trying to survive abuse from his blood relatives only to get caught in a defenseless form and brought straight to the Dark Lord himself. It wasn't his fault.

Right?

He was put down on a hard surface, the cloak still over his body and head, though he didn't move. "Should we paralyze it?" Lucius asked. The darker part of Harry was begging it be done—then he could claim he was really defenseless, unable to fight back. The lighter side of him, however, berated the thoughts and caused his body to tense and his feathers to ruffle.

"I think it would be unnecessary, but be prepared, just in case." The cloak was pulled away, Harry's emerald eyes squeezing shut tightly to keep the blinding light out, though he did not move. He was sprawled over the table, his head and long neck resting down the table, laying on what would have been his chest were he human, and both wings tucked tight against him while his long tail flowed right over the edge. Remaining motionless, he looked between the Malfoys, finding Lucius to have his wand trained on Harry, though as he saw Harry wasn't going to start flopping around, lowered it. Narcissa's eyes lit up as she gently reached forward and pet the tuff of feathers atop Harry's head, smiling.

"We just want to help," she explained, before pulling out her own wand. It was then the door opened up, both Malfoys bowing, while Harry froze completely, all his muscles in his skinny, malnourished bird body locking up. Voldemort stood in the door way, eyeing the Phoenix with red eyes, though it wasn't the man Harry knew, that he remembered. He looked like Tom Riddle, from the diary in the Chamber of Secrets, but aged a little more, perhaps in his mid to late twenties. Immediately the Dark Lord brought his wand out, training it on Harry who let out a pitiful noise.

"M-My Lord," Narcissa began. "I found him injured right outside the grounds." Voldemort—Tom?—didn't remove his eyes from the phoenix, the red narrowed dangerously.

"How is it, that we know this bird is not the exact one that resides in Dumbledore's office? Come to spy?" he demanded, stepping in the room and ready to end Harry's life. It was strange—Harry almost wanted to die, yet when faced with actually doing so, he felt a rush of adrenaline, a response to hide, to fight, kicking in and convincing him he didn't want to die.

"I have seen that Phoenix myself, my Lord," Lucius spoke. "It is a much older bird, the tuff of the feathers are not the same—and look at this one's eyes." Tom strode closer, looking down at the emerald eyes that just stared brightly back at him. It was suddenly that Harry realized the man was not being as… insane as he usually was. Both Narcissa and Lucius spoke without permission, and as Harry had witnessed a number of times, Tom tortured his followers for such behavior. Either he was too distracted with a potential spy, or… no. That had to be it. Harry had been told countless times that the Dark Lord could not change, he was a lost cause.

Tom gazed upon the Phoenix carefully, before replacing his wand by his side. Lucius was certainly right about the eyes—they looked young, naïve. Nothing like Dumbledore's bird. And surely Dumbledore was not idiotic enough to send a Phoenix to collect information? He looked indifferently over the creature, noticing how disturbingly thin it was, how much of the feathers were tarnished with silver blood, how many open wounds were present. Like it'd been tortured.

"You intend to heal it, Narcissa?"

"I do, my Lord," she said shyly. Harry was confused, emerald eyes still watching Tom. Why wasn't he dead yet? Or being tortured?

"Do not waste your magic or potions—a phoenix cannot be healed by our means. You will need to use old methods until his Burning Day comes." Narcissa looked surprised, although Harry gave a depressed chirp. His wounds, though he could not feel many of them, were not treatable. He knew the 'old methods' meant bandage wrap and splints, to keep him from losing all his blood and to keep him from damaging his wing more. He was still as Narcissa went to fetch materials, before Lucius excused himself from the room too, leaving Harry Potter alone with Tom Riddle. How many times had he been alone with the obsessed man? Wands trained on each other, each with a determination to kill? And now, here Harry was, weak and defenseless—and his prophesized enemy would not end his miserable existence.

Tom gently reached out, putting his hand near the Phoenix's beak for him to no doubt sniff the Wizard, and Harry wished his beak allowed him to frown. When he inhaled, however, his magical core tingled with the acknowledgement that the man was powerful, the strongest of the strong, and instincts told Harry it would be wise to make his loyalties to the Dark Lord.

And that was when Harry decided biting Tom Marvolo Riddle was a good idea.

Some instinct inside Harry's head said "bite him, bite Tom", and without really thinking the action through, his beak snapped over the tender flesh of the Dark Lord's hand. Immediately Tom jerked his hand away with a hiss, wand out and pointed at the Phoenix's head, while Harry was very aware of the salty, iron like taste on his tongue. Was he trying to get himself killed? Or was biting the Dark Lord how he was going to defeat him?

"My Lord, you're bleeding," Narcissa spoke, eyes wide as she returned. Tom glared at Harry for a few minutes, unsure if he wanted to torture the bird or kill it, before he dropped his wand with a quick spell to heal and clean his hand. Perhaps it was his own fault, for being foolish enough to stick his hand next to the bird's face without knowing whether or not the Phoenix was domesticated.

Harry, on the other hand, felt the vague disappointment that Tom hadn't killed him. He clicked his beak at the Dark Lord, before going limp against the table, tired and wanting nothing more than for this to be all over with. He wasn't sure which was worse—abuse from the Dursley's, or being in such close proximity to the Dark Lord and completely defenseless.

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**I would lovelovelove reviews for this! They would so be appreciated! Hope you enjoyed the story though~!**


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you** so** much for all the reviews! I'm so glad this story was well received! Quick note: ::Speak:: indicates parseltongue. I meant to mention that last chapter but forgot. Anywho!

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It had been a few hours since the Phoenix was brought to the Malfoy Manor, though Harry hadn't seen anyone aside from Narcissa, Lucius and Tom. He lay limply on the table, uncomfortable with the woman touching him like she was; her first priority had been to bandage his right wing with a splint, and after she had cleaned wounds with simple charms before wrapping gauze around him. Too tired to disobey, he sat up when she wanted him to, and moved his wings accordingly, letting his eyes wander over the Malfoy study in the meantime. He would have never expected Narcissa to be so…_ caring_. She didn't try to hurt him, it actually seemed like she was trying to avoid doing so. Such behavior from a Malfoy was unexpected; or perhaps it was just because he was prejudice against the Pureblooded Family. When she finished wrapping his wounds, there wasn't much of him that wasn't bandaged, and Harry was once again left feeling rather pathetic. He could move, but flying, or trying to, was out of the question with the way his wing was bound.

Standing atop the desk, Harry moved to the edge of it, Narcissa watching him with curious eyes, before he hopped down, flinching at the weight on his legs. Instinctually, he looked himself over, checking his new body out before smoothing down some of the feathers that stood up awkwardly. Realizing he was preening himself, Harry stopped, immediately.

"Hungry?" Narcissa asked, assuming the Phoenix understood her. Harry looked up from the floor, contemplating. What if it was poisoned? His logical thoughts interjected, reminding him they didn't know he was the Boy-Who-Lived. They assumed he was a Phoenix, and nothing more. Bowing his head a bit he moved his slender legs, feeling talons scrape against the tiled floor, before he took another step, walking towards the door, long train of a tail following after him.

Narcissa was careful not to step on the graceful bird as he followed after, opening the door for him to lead to the kitchen, where she was certain the house elves could prepare something suitable for the bird.

Harry walked after with hesitant steps, green eyes flickering everywhere as he observed the Malfoy's home. It was designed with the most expensive décor, some of the frames hanging on the wall even lined with what he assumed to be pure gold. Everything was spotless, in its proper place, and he half wondered if that was because the Dark Lord was staying there, before he pushed the thought away. It was likely they were always this clean and richly decorated. It was almost enough to make Harry envious; he'd only ever known the Dursley's place, and they were only middle class in the Muggle world—not to mention, the young Wizard lived in the cupboard under the stairs. There was nothing luxurious about that.

Stepping into the dining room, Harry observed the long table and dozens of seats around it, though the room was empty and for that he was thankful. Seeing the Wizard obsessed with killing him once was enough for him. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could get away with not seeing him again. Walking to the table, Harry looked up at one of the plush chairs and instinctively hopped, pleased that his small body was at least capable of getting up some sort of heights. Tucking his feet beneath him, Harry sat down.

How surreal was this? He was in the Malfoy Manor, Lord Voldemort a few rooms away, and a bloody bird. It was something his (somewhat lacking) imagination would have never come up with, not even in his wildest dreams. What was he going to do about it, though? His magic was inaccessible since he couldn't hold a wand, nor did he have his anyways; it was still back in his truck in the Dursley's garage. Could he use magic, if he held the wand with his beak? Was it possible? Making a mental note to steal someone's wand at a later point, Harry refocused on the problem at hand. He at least wouldn't bleed to death now, but he had a sinking feeling he was going to be stuck in the Malfoy Manor at least until his Burning Day came along—assuming it was his birthday, he still had four months to go. Could he stay that long? Without being discovered he was actually Harry Potter?

A slithering sound made the Phoenix go rigid as his neck straightened, realizing Narcissa had left him but he was not alone in the room. Looking around wildly, sharp eyes finally caught sight of Nagini, slithering under the table. Panicking and snapping his beak, Harry was quick to jump from the chair to the top of the table.

::_Come back, birdie_,:: Nagini hissed, stunning Harry. He could still understand Parseltongue!

::_Get lost, you're not eating me!_:: he hissed back, the sound strange coming from his beak and tongue rather than lips. The slithering stopped, no doubt Nagini stopping under the table. Seconds later and she was moving again, now crawling up one of the dining table chairs. She made no move to move onto the table however, sharp serpent eyes watching him suspiciously.

::_You are a bird yet speak the language of serpents_,:: she accused, implying Harry was not a Phoenix.

::_So what_.:: He wasn't sure what else he could say to her, aside from, don't eat me. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea to have spoken to her, but what else could he have done? Without being able to fly, he couldn't defend himself, especially since she had the much larger size difference. If she mentioned it to Tom, well, he could have much, much bigger problems. ::_Are you going to eat me?_:: Couldn't hurt to ask.

::_I was. But perhaps I will not now, Hatchling_.::

::_Hatchling?_:: Ki'the would call him a Hatchling, but that was when he was human. Now, he was clearly not. She gave a pleased hiss.

::_As I thought. You are not a true Phoenix_.:: Before Harry could give any response, her tail lashed out like lightning, wrapping tightly yet carefully around his body to drag him over to where she sat. He squirmed, naturally, but was held tight, warm body stuck in her hold.

::_You said you wouldn't eat me!_:: he exclaimed, hisses laced with panic.

::_Hush, I am not going to eat you. Yet_.:: Harry couldn't help the trembles that ran through his body as Nagini untangled herself from the chair, before slithering out of the room. The smaller Phoenix was still firmly in her grip, long fiery tail trailing after, though Harry was far too tired to fight back, too weak. He could never defeat Nagini like this, not with the obvious advantage she had over him. Head peaking up, the young Phoenix realized he'd been dragged to the Malfoy sitting room, where Tom Riddle was standing in front of the fire. He turned back, crimson eyes falling on the Phoenix in Nagini's grip.

::_Master, the bird can speak the language of serpents,_:: she explained. The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed.

::_Can you now?_:: he asked, voice dangerous. Nagini released Harry, before sliding away. Harry remained petrified, staring back at Tom with an undistinguishable emotion swirling in his eyes. What did he do, speak back? Not answer? He'd likely get _crucio_'d if he didn't answer. While death wasn't something he feared, he would rather die in a quick, relatively painless way.

::_Yes… My Lord_.:: Maybe if he was polite, he wouldn't get tortured, even if it practically burned his throat to call the Dark Wizard that. He felt no respect towards the man, nothing at all.

Tom raised his wand, and before Harry could even prepare himself, the wizard shot off a spell, a bright flash hitting Harry's small avian body. In the moment, the only thing he could think was it didn't hurt—he was knocked back, but didn't fall, just looked back at Tom in bewilderment. He wasn't dead, nor seizing on the floor in agonizing pain. The Dark Lord's lips twitched into a frown.

::_You will tell me who you are_,:: he demanded, glaring at Harry.

::_I, um… don't remember. I can't remember who I am_.:: He lied before he thought about it. Tom hissed.

::_You are lying!_::

An odd thought struck Harry as he watched the Dark Lord, still unmoving and standing at the other end of the man's wand. If he knew the Phoenix was lying, why hadn't he _crucio_'d Harry yet? In the few times he'd been privy to Voldemort's mind during his nightmares, Slytherin's Heir had little to no patience for anything, especially lying. So why wasn't he writhing in pain pathetically on the floor? Why was he, seemingly, being given another chance?

::_I can't tell you_.:: It wasn't technically a lie that Tom's legilimacy could pick up on. He couldn't tell him, it would only result in his death.

::_Why not?_:: the man hissed, and Harry could hear the rising anger. Thinking quickly, and desperately not wanting to be tortured, he kept going.

::_It would affect the prophecy_.::

::_What? What prophecy?_:: His interest was piqued, but the anger hadn't dissipated either. A steady hand kept the wand trained on Harry.

::_I cannot say. Many of your questions I cannot answer._:: He was starting to sound like Dumbledore. Though, it was better than sounding like Harry Potter right now. Tom kept a passive face, emotion off his fine features, but he was debating what to do with the young Phoenix.

::_And what exactly_ can _you tell me?_:: he hissed.

::_It would be in your… interests to keep me close_.::

Oh Merlin, what was he getting himself into? And where did he get that from? He wanted to avoid the Dark Lord, and now he was telling him the exact opposite. What was he hoping to achieve, anyways? Hear some secrets that would help Harry to bring him down? Or was he going with the familiar keep your friends close, enemies closer? Surprisingly, however, Tom lowered his wand, a small smirk coming to his face as his eyes lit with some sort of dark glee. Harry once again wished he could frown.

::_Well then, I will do well to ensure you are kept close. What is your name?_::

::_Evans, my Lord_.::

Tom parted his lips to speak, however, was interrupted by the doors swinging open and Severus Snape walking in, oblivious of the Phoenix on the floor until his foot came down to crush some of the feathers of Harry's tail. Screeching out his pain, he tried to get away, flapping his wings blindly until arms circled around him and lifted him up from the ground, hissing softly and petting the crushed tail feathers, straightening. Calming down, panting for breath, Harry never realized how sensitive his tail feathers were, or that he could feel each individual ones.

Harry stiffened, realizing he was in someone's arms, before his eyes slowly lifted to meet deep red ones. Ensnared in the gaze, he could do nothing but look back. Were the Dark Lord's eyes always that brilliant?

::_Here_:: he hissed, breaking his eyes away to set Harry on the back of a large, plush chair, and the Phoenix perched easily. Had Tom just picked him up and soothed him?

What was going on?

What happened to Lord Voldemort?

"My Lord, you should see this," Snape spoke, holding a paper in his hand and completely uncaring he'd just stepped on the Phoenix's tail. Tom stepped forward elegantly, taking the paper and letting his eyes sweep over the front page. Harry could barely recognize the Daily Prophet header from his angle, but he could see the large picture of himself on the front page, grinning. Tom moved from where he was standing to sit in the chair Harry was perched on, allowing the Phoenix to read over his shoulder.

_Boy-Who-Lived Missing! _

Harry speed read the article, growing more tense with each word. They knew he was gone from his aunt and uncles, but no one knew where.

"What have you heard, Snape?" Tom demanded, voice thin.

"Dumbledore and the Order knows nothing at all. They suspect you've captured him."

"He is not in my possession," Tom snarled. He seethed silently for a moment, before calming, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I want him found, before the Light gets their hands on him again." Snape nodded, before leaving the room swiftly. If only the Dark Lord knew Harry Potter was perched on the back of his chair.

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I appreciate reviews! Gives me a push to get a chapter out sooner!


	3. Chapter 3

**Here is the next chapter! I'd like to take a second to thank everyone who took a minute to review, even if it was just to say they liked the story. It really makes me happy, and urges me to get the next chapter done more quickly. I've been doing pretty well with updating this, and I intend to keep it that way. Anywho, hope you enjoy this chapter.**

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Two days had passed.

While living with the Dursley's, he was subjected to mostly sleepless nights, either in too much pain to be able to relax and sleep, or busy tending to his potion ingredients in the back yard and planting more. When he felt particularly brave, he'd try to steal food from the refrigerator, though he rarely got away with it—Petunia seemed to catalog the food before she went to bed every night, and if anything was missing, Harry was beaten for it. There were nights were Dudley got up for a midnight snack, or even Vernon, yet Harry was still blamed for it and neither male spoke up. Harry himself had given up on trying. They never believed him, only hurt him more for daring to speak. He was nothing to them. The dirt they walked on. The scum on the bottom of their shoes. Not worth food, not worth sleep, and definitely not worth going a day without pain. He'd forgotten what it felt like, to feel normal. To not have an unpleasant agony twist beneath his skin and claw at his frail bone structure.

In his new form, that of a fiery colored Phoenix, he felt comfortable for once. He was naturally warm, but it served to dull the pain he should most definitely be in—his wing was still broken, and there were dozens of cuts all over his body, still bleeding and in turn causing the bandages to have to be replaced daily. Narcissa tended to the job, still convinced that helping the Phoenix would earn her family some sort of magical blessing, and Tom was never far behind.

Something about the Dark Lord was definitely off—he was actually kind! Without being able to fly, many high places were inaccessible to the Phoenix, and Harry discovered he rather liked sitting perched on something, where he could oversee what was going on in the room. Tom, as if sensing his longing to be sitting up high, would often pick him up wordlessly, and put him where he wanted to be. Closed doors often hindering him too, and when Tom wasn't feeling like a bastard, would open them for Harry. It confused the Boy-Who-Lived to no end—had he been wrong about the Dark Lord?

No, that was absurd. This was a man who slaughtered his mother and father, and proceeded to seek Harry's death by his own wand. He murdered innocents, tortured his own followers, and made Harry's life hell ever since he could remember. It was his fault Harry had to live with the Dursley's. His fault that the teenager was maliciously abused for his entire life. The only reason Tom could possibly have for being _kind_ to Harry now was that he had said something about a prophecy and keeping him close. He was still a Dark Lord, and he would still seek the destruction of the Wizarding World. If he knew the Phoenix was really the Boy-Who-Lived, the very same one who would kill him, there was no doubt in Harry's mind that he would have been _Avada Kedavra_'d on the spot.

Exploring Malfoy Manor had been interesting, for lack of better terms. The house elves seemed rather fond of him, trying to feed him treats and pet his feathers. He allowed the later, but refused to take anything that resembled bird food—just because he looked like a bird, didn't mean he had to eat like one. The house elves didn't seem to care, offering him chocolates instead. It was then Harry realized that his undernourished stomach could not hold much; two chocolate bites was enough to fill him completely for hours on end. Surviving off a slice of bread and half glass of water for days at a time for years had caused his stomach to shrink, and his appetite to become nearly nonexistent. If anyone noticed, however, they didn't say anything.

At some point during his explorations, he'd ended up in the garden of the Malfoy's home, and then proceeded to meet Draco. There was a large, luxurious pond in the back, and the cool water let off cool bursts of air that Harry loved to be near—it complimented the natural heat of his body. And that was when Draco came outside, pausing at the sight of the sickly and injured bird. For a while, Draco seemed to pretend he wasn't there, and Harry was perfectly fine with that, since he still harbored some ill feelings towards the Slytherin and wasn't sure he could keep from biting him. However, all good things had to come to an end, and Draco eventually made his way over. He paused, several feet from Harry, before carefully extending his hand—and surprisingly, Harry felt no instinctual urge to bite him, like he had with Tom. So, he allowed the heir to pet his head, before remembering that before his potions accident, he was a person, and did not enjoy his rival petting him.

The two days were uneventful, with Harry relaxing around the Malfoy Manor in comfort, observing Tom when he wasn't busy sleeping. The Dark Lord had only left the Manor a total of three times, one being gone for nearly half the day, while the other two times he was only gone an hour at most. When he returned, he always checked to make sure Harry hadn't gone anywhere, and Harry made the half-hearted decision that in the future, he'd hide from the Dark Lord. For fun.

Despite the fact that he was stuck in the form of a Phoenix, without magic or a means of communicating with others aside from Tom and Nagini, Harry found the situation rather enlightening. No one knew it was him—he wasn't the Boy-Who-Lived, he wasn't prophesized to save the Wizarding World. He could just relax around the Manor without the weight of his duties on his shoulder. It was wonderful, and he actually found himself enjoying his life. Before, he was just living—no, not even living. _Surviving_. He was surviving the psychotic Wizard who wanted him dead, the Muggle family that wanted to beat and break him, and all the other hurdles that Fate threw at him. Now, he was living.

Perched on the mantle of the fireplace, long trail of feathers that was his tail hanging over the edge and away from the fire, Harry dozed on an off in what was a mid-afternoon nap, sharing the room with both Tom and Nagini. The serpent had the same ideas, curled beneath the elegant sofa, while Tom was reading the paper, no doubt another article about the missing Boy-Who-Lived. Harry had stopped paying attention to the papers—at first they were just reports, saying that Harry Potter had gone missing, but just in the past two days, they spiraled to despair. Apparently without him the Light side was doomed. He wanted to snort at the idea, but his beak didn't allow for such a reaction; would no one else lift their wand against Voldemort? What made him so special that he had to be the one to defeat the Dark Lord? Surely someone was stronger than Harry, on par with Tom, even. Why did the duty have to fall on his shoulders.

::_What has you so agitated_?:: Tom asked in a hiss of parseltongue, breaking both the silence and Harry's thought process. The Phoenix looked to the Dark Lord, not missing the annoyed glint in his dark red eyes. ::_Your fidgeting and ruffling is infuriating_.::

Not sure what else to say, he merely apologized with an awkward hiss of his own. ::_Sorry_.::

He sighed, before setting the paper on the small table beside his plush chair, and rose. As Tom walked over to the window, peering out at the overcast that enveloped the Manor, Harry fidgeted some, feeling the bandages and feathers beginning to get heavy with new blood. He needed them to get changed, as mortifying and embarrassing as it was that someone else had to do it. Like a newborn baby who needs their diaper changed. Eyeing the chair Tom had stood up from, Harry jumped down from the mantle to the cushion, clicking his beak once before dropping to the floor, intending to find Narcissa before his feathers became too much of an annoyance, or worse, he began dripping blood on the floor.

::_Where are you going?_:: Tom inquired as he made his way to the door.

::_To get my bandages changed_.:: He did not make it far before the Dark Lord came up behind him and picked him up, causing him to click in annoyance as his talons immediately grabbed onto the Wizard's robe for leverage, though Tom didn't seem to mind.

::_Narcissa is out, I will tend to your bandages_.:: Harry seemed to freeze in the man's grasp, muscles tightening as he stared at the Dark Lord. That was certainly not what he was expecting. Tom ignored the look and tense bird, carrying him up the stairs and down the hall, and it was then Harry realized he didn't know which room they were now in, though he had a guess.

::_Is this your room?_:: he asked without thinking.

::_Yes_.:: Harry realized that he was being taken to the man's private bathroom, and embarrassment coursed through his veins in strong doses. He, Harry James Potter, was about to be bathed by his arch-nemesis, Lord Voldemort.

The Dark Lord set him on the counter and went about carefully removing the bandages and split, throwing the bloodied ones out before surveying the bird carefully. For the longest time, Harry was still, just looking back, before finally twitching and clicking his beak.

::_What?_:: he hissed, annoyed.

::_How did you obtain these injuries?_:: the Wizard asked, sounding genuinely curious. The young Phoenix went very, very still.

::_N-None of your concern,_:: he said hastily. Tom looked as though he were going to press for an answer, but decided not, instead opting to turn the shower on with the flick of his wand and set Harry on the floor. Shuddering, the Phoenix moved to the shower, feeling the warm steam before glancing back to the Dark Lord only to have his eyes widen in revelation—he was not intending to wash Harry, but _join_ him. Tom had disrobed himself, much of his pale skin revealed to Harry who immediately looked away and climbed into the shower, ignoring the way the water matted down his feathers in an unpleasant way.

He was in the room with a naked Lord Voldemort.

Certainly, to Tom, there was no problem with such a thing. Harry was, after all, a bird—he should have no interest in a naked human. Yet, Harry was absolutely embarrassed, and could only think of how much worse the situation would have been if he were human. At Hogwarts, he made sure to shower after everyone else, to never be in the same room and undressed with another person. Not with all the abuse scars on his body. As a Phoenix, however, all, if any, scars were hidden by feathers. If it were anyone else but the Dark Lord, he might have been comfortable.

Tom stepped into the large shower, making sure not to step on the Phoenix's obnoxiously long tail, and pulled the door shut before stepping under the spray, ignoring how Harry was currently in the corner. Only when the Wizard turned his back to Harry did the Phoenix inch into the warm spray of the water, letting it wash away the silver blood that decorated him, and relax. Tom's arse, he could deal with, if only marginally.

The shower seemed to last forever, to Harry at least, but when Tom had finished rinsing himself of Soap and—much to Harry's horror—inspected the bird to make sure the blood had been cleaned off him, he turned the water off and stepped out. With a wave of his wand, he was robed again, and with another wave, Harry found himself trapped in a giant, fluffy towel. He was picked up again, and brought out to the bedroom where Tom set him on the bed and summoned a house-elf to bring him the needed bandages and splints. Harry remained still and cooperative through the entire process, once again finding himself perplexed as to why the Dark Lord was being so gentle with him. Was he naturally this way, or was he forcing himself to be caring because of the words Harry had given him?

::_I have a meeting with my Death Eaters soon_,:: Tom spoke, splinting the Phoenix's wing. ::_You may come along, or remain here_.:: It became obvious to him that the Phoenix knew who he was—there was no point in hiding or demanding answers.

Harry contemplated the choice, leaning heavily towards staying before his Gryffindor, Light half voiced that he should go. If he ever did get out of the situation somehow, then perhaps he could secure important information that would be useful to bring down the Dark Lord.

::_I will go_,:: he voiced, though his tone was quiet. When Tom finished with the final bandages, he uttered a brief spell to clean his hands off before picking the Phoenix up and bringing him to his shoulder. Harry, taking the hint, perched himself on Tom's shoulder without digging his talons in too deeply, and settled down for the walk to the dining room, where he knew the meeting would be held. Nagini soon joined them, following Tom down stairs and into the room where the Death Eaters had already gathered but silenced immediately upon seeing their Lord enter the room.

Tom seated himself at the head of the table, and Harry moved from his shoulder to the back of the chair, bright green eyes surveying those in attendance while making himself comfortable. Some seemed disturbed to see him there, but no one moved nor spoke.

"Where is Severus?" Tom demanded, eyes falling on an empty chair. Just as he finished speaking, the fire roared before the man in question stepped through, immediately bowing to the Dark Lord.

"Forgive me, my Lord. The Order was having an important meeting, and I thought you would like to hear what they said," he explained, voice sounding strained. Tom nodded, before gesturing to the empty chair.

"Then share, Severus."

"The Order does not know what happened to Potter, but sent Remus Lupin to check on his Muggle relatives again. It seems he was able to detect blood belonging to Potter in a cupboard." Harry was tense on his perch, watching. He'd bled in his cupboard a number of times, though cleaned up the mess—it made sense only Remus could have discovered it, being a werewolf and all.

"You don't think Potter could have… taken his own life, do you, my lord?" Lucius asked. Tom remained passive for several seconds, thinking it through, before sneering.

"No. I am certain if he was dead I would have known." Harry knew he was speaking of the bond they shared, and that was when he realized his close proximity to the Wizard wasn't bringing his scar any pain. Did he still have the scar in this form? "What does the Order think?"

"They are entirely convinced you have him, my Lord. That he was being tortured and slaughtered as they spoke," Snape answered. Harry could feel Tom's anger boiling from where he was perched slightly behind and above the man.

"If I had Potter, or even _found _him, he would have been dead on sight. But the simple fact is I do not possess him! I want Potter found, no matter what it takes!" Immediately the Death Eaters recognized their dismissal, appariting from the room save for Lucius and Snape. "Severus, keep up with the Order—with Dumbledore. This must be of that old fool's planning! I wouldn't doubt if he was hiding Potter in the Hogwarts dungeons just to cause trouble." Snape nodded and stood, appariting from the room, leaving only Lucius. "We're going to take advantage of this situation, Lucius. Use our ties in the Daily Prophet, ensure they publish an article that the Boy-Who-Lived is dead by my wand." A malicious grin spread over Tom's lips, and Lucius nodded, leaving immediately.

Harry sat still where he was perched, thinking. It was obvious that, despite the care Tom had shown him in the past few days, he was still very intent on slaughtering him. Harry wasn't sure why he expected otherwise—this was a Wizard who'd been after his death since he was born. Harry wasn't even sure where the seeds of hope that he had changed came from, or why they planted in the first place.

Tom stood up abruptly, before moving to pace the room, leaving Harry perched on the chair to watch. The situation was getting more and more dangerous by the day. Here he was, the Wizard prophesized to kill the Dark Lord, right in front of said Dark Lord's face. If the potion were to wear off, and he was changed back to Harry Potter, he'd be dead the second Tom figured out what was going on. Perhaps before. He always struck Harry as an 'Avada Kedavra first, ask questions later' kind of man. Harry had no control over when the potion wore out. He couldn't keep himself in the form. Right now, it was the only thing saving his life.

But did he really want his life saved? He was slowly bleeding out, the bandages prolonging his death, but for how long? Would they last for four months, until his Burning Day? (If that was even when the day was?) He would grow weaker and weaker until movement was impossible, until he died from the wounds. Sure, he wasn't in constant pain, but that didn't ease the burden any. If anything it only made it a sliver more comfortable. And when he was finally healed, or should he finally turn back to his human self and somehow escape, what then? He would be back in the Dursley's care, abused and broken during the summer, and then back at Hogwarts, training to kill the Dark Lord plaguing the Magical World. What kind of future was that to look forward to?

At that prospect, death almost seemed welcoming.

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**If you have a moment, I'd love a review! Let me know what you think or if you have any ideas!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Wow, this update took forever to write! But, it's done, and I've got the next few chapters planned out, so I intend to update sooner. That being said, I'd like to once again thank every one who reviewed last chapter-profusely. Thank you thank you thank you! You have no idea how happy it makes me! Well, without further wait, chapter 4!**

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The entire room was silent, the inhabitants avoiding eye contact with not only the new arrivals but each other as well. Molly Weasley seemed almost nervous as she poured the tea for her husband, spilling the hot liquid though he didn't seem to notice—not the with attention he was giving the newspaper. It was gripped tightly between his fingertips, knuckles going white, while his blue eyes flickered madly over the small print. Molly uttered nothing in apology, not daring to break the suffocating silence, and cleaned the mess with a wordless charm before returning to the stove top. Nymphadora Tonks leaned by the countertop, obsessively stirring her coffee though the sugar had long since dissolved. Sirius Black stood beside Remus Lupin, shoulders brushed against one another's intimately, though they stared absently out the window at nothing in particular, both so wrapped in their thoughts they hardly noticed Hermione and Ron enter the kitchen and sit at the long table, the two young Gryffindors sharing a frown.

"What's going on? Mum, Dad?" Ron asked, eyes falling on his parents. Everyone in the room seemed to go still from the broken silence, all eyes locking onto the boy who broke it.

"It's best if we wait for Dumbledore, dear," Molly answered, offering a smile though it didn't quite have the mirth it usually possessed. "Can I get you some breakfast?"

"No thanks, Mrs.—" Hermione stopped speaking when the fireplace roared with emerald flames and Albus Dumbledore appeared not seconds later. Everyone turned to him at once, and there was no mistake about the hopeful expression the adults adopted—something that only caused further worry with Ron and Hermione. Dumbledore paused, before his lips smoothed into a thin line and he shook his head, moving to sit at the front of the table. Sirius shook his head, hands balling tightly into fists as he turned back to the window, barely noticing how Remus put a comforting hand upon his shoulder and moved to stand closer to him. Molly muffled a noise very similar to a sob, sitting beside Arthur who had looked up from his paper for only a minute, before going back to reading furiously.

"Will Harry be coming?" Hermione asked, having a small fear which was steadily growing larger—the impromptu meeting was most likely about the Boy-Who-Lived. Had something terrible happened? Had You-Know-Who found him? Dumbledore gave a faint smile, though it didn't meet his eyes.

"No, Harry will not be joining us, Miss Granger. Two days ago, Harry went missing from his relatives' home in Surrey." For a long minute, Ron and Hermione merely stared—Ron parted his lips to speak, but no sound came out.

"Missing?" Hermione asked finally, sounding bewildered. "You must being joking, right? You really brought him from his muggle relatives, and that's what you're telling everyone, isn't it?" No, Harry would never just go missing—not to mention it was nearly impossible. Every witch and wizard knew who he was, could recognize his appearance in a mob—he'd never be able to go anywhere without being recognized.

"I'm afraid not, my dear."

"Did Harry ever say anything to you? Either of you, in a letter? That he might go somewhere?" Sirius asked, tone uneven.

"Harry doesn't write in the summery—Hedwig stays with Hagrid," Ron answered.

"Before the summer then?"

"No, nothing at all."

No one spoke for several minutes—Ron and Hermione letting the information sink in, while the adults realized their last lead to finding Harry was nonexistent.

"Bloody hell, he's really missing? Like, just disappeared?" Ron whispered, eyes staring blankly at the table.

"Correct, Mr. Weasley. There was absolutely no sign of him even ever being there," Dumbledore answered.

"Except for all the damn blood," Sirius growled lowly. His comment caused both teenagers to go deathly still, faces paling considerably as their eyes went wide.

"Sirius!" Molly scolded, face tinting red. "They don't—"

"Yes they do! They need to hear it!" he snapped.

"The blood was old, Sirius, years old," Remus reminded.

"There were fresh trails though!" the ex-prisoner exclaimed, a wild glint to his eyes as he turned on the werewolf. Remus said nothing, merely settling both hands on Sirius' shoulders, a meaningful look in his eyes as the ex-prisoner calmed his breathing. Harry would be all right. He had to be.

"Hermione, Ron, I have a very serious question I want to ask, and I need you to think hard on it. Has Harry ever had odd bruises, broken bones, or any other marks after summer vacation?: Arthur asked, joining the conversation. All eyes immediately turned to both Ron and Hermione, the air of the kitchen becoming thick and tense.

"No, not that I've ever noticed," the girl answered with a shake of her head as Ron fully agreed. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason, dearie," Molly answered, wanting to protect Harry's friends from the dark possibilities.

"So if Harry's missing, what—" Ron was cut off by the fireplace, this time Severus Snape emerging from the emerald flames.

"You!" Sirius shouted in outrage, wand out and immediately pointed as he moved to lunge, Remus just barely stopping the struggling man. "Where is my Godson?"

Snape frowned at the scene before him, wand in hand and read to defend himself. "I know not where Potter is," he said dryly. "The dark lord has no idea where the boy is, though is eager to find him."

"Would you tell us, honestly, if Voldemort had him?" Remus asked, skeptical himself. Before Snape could part his lips to speak, there was a strangled gasp from the other side of the room. Instantly, all eyes turned to Tonks, who held that particular day's newspaper and had paled considerably at whatever she read.

"What is it, Tonks?" With shaky fingers she turned the paper around, showing the headline to the Order of the Phoenix: "Harry Potter, 16, Murdered by You-Know-Who."

And that was when the first curse flew from Sirius' wand.

X X X X X X X X

Having one of his more faithful Death Eaters investigating the muggle house, reporting on both the boy's relatives as well as his 'guards' (especially since his disappearance), wasn't enough for the Dark Lord—he needed to see himself, investigate. Why would the Boy-Who-Lived run away from his no doubt pampered life? Surely, if half the things Severus reported had any merit, Harry Potter was treated like royalty, like a spoiled brat. So it had to be a ploy—the Order, no, _Dumbledore,_ was trying to trick him. It was foolish and it would cost them; it already had. It was published that very morning that You-Know-Who had murdered Harry Potter, and no doubt the entire Wizarding World was thrown into turmoil. Their Savior was dead, no one would save them. It was their own faults for relying on a sixteen year old boy to kill the most powerful Dark Lord to date. As if Harry Potter ever stood a chance.

Clad in dark robes and with notice-me-not charms active on his persons, Tom moved among the shadows in the late of the night as he approached the modest house Potter's relatives lived in. He sneered lightly, seeing a taller, spindly woman leaving the house with a boy close to Potter's age, the young man bordering obesity. The two climbed into the car, before pulling out of the driveway as a smirk claimed the Dark Lord's face. It would be much more easier with only one muggle in the house; not that he had been opposed to a challenge. In fact, part of him was hoping to kill all three, to take more away from his arch-nemesis.

Silent and like a shadow himself, Tom moved across the street to the muggle home, finding the wards Severus had warned him of, only to discover he could pass through them with ease, as if they had weaken or broken completely. Approaching the front door, he unlocked it wandlessly before stepping inside, looking around at the décor. Where were the pillars of gold? The mounds of coins and gems? The place was mediocre, and it looked as though it hadn't seen a good dusting in a while. Frowning, he took a few more steps into the house, finding a whale of a man seated in what Tom considered the sitting room, television on and nearly deafening. Well, it seemed this would be _too_ easy.

Stunning the man, Tom proceeded to look through the house, investigating rooms before finally returning to interrogate Potter's uncle. There was nothing of interest in the bedrooms he peered in—he couldn't even distinguish which was the Boy-Who-Lived's—and there was a disgusting lack of anything magical in the household. Surely the boy would have had a house elf or two to tend to him. Perhaps they had gone with him, wherever it was he went.

Sitting in the plush chair (after casting a brief cleaning charm) across from the stunned muggle, Tom observed him for a moment, before locking eyes; "_Legilimens_," he hissed. Immediately, the wizard was given access to the unprotected mind, and began to flick through memories as though they were mere movies for his entertainment. At first, his only interest were the latest ones—post Potter-disappearance, and perhaps only slightly before. However, what he found was most interesting.

"_Boy, you've got ten seconds to get out of that cupboard!" he snarled, banging his fist on the small door before unlocking it. Vernon Dursley's thoughts were dripping with the desire to bring physical harm to Harry, beady eyes looking around for the smallest cause before he decided the boy wasn't getting out of the cupboard fast enough. Prying the door open with grubby hands, his eyes widened upon discovering Harry was not inside it. _

"_Petunia! The Freak, he's escaped!" he shouted, before his giraffe of a wife came down the stairs quickly. _

The Dark Lord ended the spell, corner of his lips twitching into a frown as he stood up quickly and walked to the cupboard he'd seen in the muggle's memory—something had caught his eye, and he wanted to see if perhaps it was just his grotesque imagination. Unlocking the cupboard, he pulled the door open and frowned, discovering the floor was laden with dried blood, as well as the miserable excuse for a bed. It was disgusting, even for him—when Wizards killed, they didn't leave copious amounts of blood splatter. Were the muggles the cause of the blood? The thought wasn't too absurd, not with the thoughts he'd viewed in the man's mind. There was another lingering thought, however, his mind reminding him of a question Lucius Malfoy poised. Had Potter taken his own life?

Knowing the only answers he'd get would be from the muggle's mind, Tom returned to his chair with a displeased frown on his face. This was… unsettling. The one boy prophesized to kill him, to end the war, to be the world's save, dead, and not by his hand. Of course, he was jumping to conclusions rather quickly and his mind was categorizing the other possibilities. Potter could have just run away. He could be trying to execute his own plans, away from the Order. The Order could be hiding him. Or the Golden Boy could have killed himself.

Making eye contact with the still stunned man, Tom continue rifling through his memories and thoughts, searching for clues to what had happened to Harry Potter. What he found, however, was disturbing, even to him.

The muggles abused the Wizarding World's Golden Boy. Potter was starved for weeks, fed nothing more than crumbs of bread once every four or five days. Vernon Dursley beat him often and brutally, breaking bones, leaving welts from his belt across the young man's back, even going as far as to cut delicate flesh with a sharp blade. Vernon kicked, punched, scratched and shove the teenager around—even taught his large son how to fight while using Potter as a punching bag. The abuse didn't just occur in Potter's adolescent years—it had been happening ever since Tom killed his parents and the boy was left on the Dursley's doorsteps. As an infant, Potter wasn't shown the proper care he needed—it explained his rather small stature, though why he didn't grow to be an emotional abomination was unexplainable. A miracle, if anything.

As Tom moved memory from memory in the muggle's mind, he found a rather nagging feeling clawing its way into his chest—pity, perhaps, but his rational mind easily recognized it as empathy for the teenager. He hadn't been abused to the extent that Harry had, but he had certainly felt the wrath of a cruel caretaker as well as the brunt force of a schoolyard bully. He knew what it was like to be labeled 'freak'. It seemed he and Harry had more in common than he original thought.

There was one thing that divided them—Harry had a way out, Tom did not. Dumbledore surely wouldn't let his little Savior go abused like this. What about the boy's godfather? Sirius Black? And he had friends, though their names weren't coming to his mind at present. Surely had the boy reached out, he would have been saved. Tom lived in an orphanage, with no living relative that he knew at the time. He was trapped.

His thoughts were interrupted by a scream, breaking eye contact with the whale of a man to look at the woman who had entered with her son, both absolutely still and staring at Tom. The muggle had slumped from the couch to the floor, nose bleeding from the stress on his mental state. The Dark Lord paid him no mind as a deep rooted anger began to set in. It was different than the insanity-driven rage; then, he was impulsive, shot curses first and asked questions later, or in some cases, never. He couldn't control himself, wouldn't even bother. But this anger ran deep through his body, his magic pulsing strongly though his mind remained clear, allowed him to think as his eyes narrowed dangerously at the muggle family.

Now, he certainly didn't like the Boy-Who-Lived, far from it. Tom still wanted to kill him, to end his existence and take over the Wizarding World. But that was just it—Harry was _his_ to kill. Only he was the only allowed to destroy the boy; it was the sole reason he never allowed on of his Death Eaters to attack Potter. The idea that those muggles almost took such a pleasure away from him made his knuckles turn white as he gripped his wand tightly. Oh how he would enjoy torturing them until the very life left their body.

It was hours later, perhaps, that Tom left the muggle home and pulled his hood up over his head. As soon as he was away from the anti-apparition wards, the Dark Lord returned to the Malfoy Manor, finding himself sitting down in front of the fire, feeling both Evans' and Nagini's eyes on him. For the longest time, he ignored both, calming the anger that rippled through him, reigning in the emotion he knew so well before Evans finally decided to break the silence.

::_What's wrong?_:: he asked, voice low. Tom glanced up to him, noticing how the phoenix was sitting on the mantle, long tail swept to the side, and looking quite content aside from the bright, curious eyes that watched the Dark Lord intensely.

::_I returned from a visit with Harry Potter's relatives_,:: he answered, unsure why he was giving the bird such information he'd never have disclosed to his closest followers. What transpired there was no one's business but his own. He insisted that it was because of what Evans had spoken of before—about the prophecy, about keeping him close. He was just forcing himself to trust the bird, that was all.

::_Harry Potter_?:: Tom's eyes snapped up to the Phoenix, who had a neutral glint to his emerald eyes. How was it that Evans had heard of him, Lord Voldemort, but never of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived? The man scowled, leaning back in the plush chair. He found himself beginning to relax, the anger that had been crawling beneath his skin settling as he indulged the Phoenix in his care to some information.

::_He is the boy prophesized to kill me_,:: Tom answered, voice devoid of emotion. He had never spoken such a thing before—thought it, yes, but actually used his vocal cords to voice it had never occurred before. Perhaps some foolish part of him believed it make it less true. ::Though he has recently disappeared, and no one seems to know where he went.::

::_I think I read about his death in the paper this morning…::_ the phoenix answered thoughtfully. Tom smirked.

::_Reading over my shoulder again_?:: He knew Evans did it, particularly when he had a book in hand—the phoenix always perched himself on the Dark Lord's chair. Evans ruffled his feathers a bit, wings twitching, but otherwise did not say anything. If Tom knew any better, he'd have guessed the bird was flustered. ::_But yes. I have connections within the Daily Prophet who published the story. False, of course, as I would have remembered the joy of killing Potter_.::

Evans clicked his beak briefly, the sounds barely reaching Tom's ears. ::_What purpose does that serve?_::

::_To spread fear, of course. It will hopefully sink in now that it was foolish to pin a sixteen year old boy again _me,_ the most powerful Dark Lord in existence_.::

For the longest time, Evans was quiet, and Tom thought the conversation had ended. However, the bird spoke again, the hiss barely reaching the Wizard's ears.

::_Agreed_.::


	5. Chapter 5

**Another chapter! This one is bit short, though expect another one soon! Thanks, once again, to everyone who took a second to review! It really makes me smile!**

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Another three days had passed, and yet, Harry was nearly oblivious to the time change. His current disposition left him feeling relaxed, despite knowing being in a house with his arch-nemesis, injured, and completely unable to fight back, should have worried him and caused anxiety to ripple through his small body. Yet, it didn't. He was comfortable, lounging on the mantle in the sitting room or perched on a chair behind Tom, reading whatever he was reading. That is, if he could understand the language. It wasn't rare that the Dark Lord had a tome in hand that was written in some ancient, practically forgotten script. Sometimes Harry asked what it was, which Tom always answered, and other times the bird was content with just sitting there. In the mornings, however, the wizard would have a copy of the Daily Prophet curled in his fingers, and he knew Harry particularly enjoyed reading that; he'd often move the Phoenix to the back of the chair so he could join him.

The Boy-Who-Lived was startled to find his death had been all that was written about for the last few days. Rita Skeeter had even gone as far as to write a biography for him—Harry had to resist the humorless laugh. Her article spoke nothing about his true life; she highlighted some of his more known things, like winning the triwizard tournament, and how he was destined for 'great things' (whatever that meant), but he realized she didn't even know the extent of his life. How he lived with muggle relatives that beat and starved him, how he never knew what family was like until he met the Weasleys, how he had come to feel the weight of defeating Lord Voldemort was too much for his bony shoulders to handle.

Tom hadn't disappeared since he went to investigate Harry's muggle relatives, and the Phoenix had a sinking feeling that the Dursley's were dead. He couldn't bring himself to feel anything regarding such; he never felt anything aside from a burning hate towards them, and in the wake of their death, his feelings toward them had shrunk to nothing. Since they were dead, he no longer had any reason to hate them, yet similarly, he had no reason to like them or even mourn their loss. He was indifferent—with only a sliver of hope and gratitude, perhaps. If the Dursley's were dead, it meant Harry had nowhere to go in the summer holidays, and if he was lucky, Dumbledore may allow for him to stay with Sirius. It was for that reason only he was thankful to Tom.

The man had been quiet. He hadn't said much, well, he never usually did, though now even his comments to Harry and Nagini were sparse, and he hardly had his Death Eaters around in the room, whereas he sometimes had Lucius or Severus to accompany him. Harry, having nothing better to do given his current state, would spend time observing the man when he wasn't looking. Occasionally, his knuckles would turn white as he gripped the book tighter in his hand, a dangerous look in his crimson eyes as though they were trying to burn a hole into the pages. The Phoenix wondered what had gotten Tom so angry at seemingly random times, but chose not to voice his curiosity.

"Come now, Evans, I shall change your bandages," Narcissa chirped, startling Harry from where he was perched in the dining room, having ate the breakfast the house elves supplied, though his small stomach could not handle more than a few bites else he get sick. Tom was seated at the head of the table, but didn't seem to care as the Phoenix was picked up and carted out of the room, the wizard appearing to be lost in thought. The Malfoy woman brought him upstairs to one of the larger bathrooms and set him on the counter, beginning the routine of changing the bloodied bandages and reapplying the splint on his right wing after cleaning the feathers of the silvery liquid.

She had just succeeded in finishing the bandages around his body when she suddenly froze, eyes looking up and away, before Narcissa suddenly ran from the room. Curious, Harry tucked the broken and yet-to-be splinted wing against his side before jumping down from the counter, intent on finding out what was going on—he made it to the hallway only to hear the familiar sound of a wall being blown open. Moving down the hall as quickly as his small legs could take him, he hopped up onto a table by the window and peered out, seeing the cause of the destructive sound. The Order of the Phoenix was attacking Malfoy Manor.

In a normal situation—because this was not normal, under any circumstances—the thought-prisoner would have been overjoyed; his rescue had come. Yet, the young Phoenix was suddenly finding himself filled with dread. He realized he didn't want to be rescued. He wanted to stay there, as a phoenix, and continue living carefree. It was wonderful, being able to sit around and waste the day away, not having to concern himself with making plans or training to stop Voldemort, not having to wonder if he'd survive to see the next day. Here, he could be Evans the Phoenix, where nothing was really expected of him.

A little, dark part of him rejoiced that he was a Phoenix, and unidentifiable as Harry Potter.

"This way, Sirius, I can smell his blood," a familiar voice called. Harry found himself looking back, seeing Remus Lupin turn into the bathroom he had just come from, with a distraught Sirius Black right behind him. The Phoenix froze immediately, heart breaking a little bit. Here he was, all but hiding from his godfather and a man he'd grown so close to. They were so obviously distressed over his disappearance, unlikely to believe that Harry was dead, and searching for him. How he wished he could tell them not to worry, not to search.

"I can smell it too—but it's… it's different," Sirius spoke, Harry barely able to hear the duo. Had his blood composition changed with the potion mishap?

Before they could converse further, Death Eaters had invaded the hall, rushing the bathroom where the two Light wizards were, and a duel began amongst them. It, unfortunately, did not remain exclusive to the bathroom, and before Harry knew it, they were in the hall with spells flying wildly, destroying the décor, breaking the windows, and nearly hitting the Phoenix before he had the sense to get down from the table and leave, promptly. He ran down the adjacent hall, trying to find somewhere he could hide—a spare room, perhaps?—only to hear the familiar crack of apparition. His emerald eyes looked up to find Dumbledore at the other end of the hall, and for a minute, his heart stopped. What if he recognized him as Harry? Grabbed him and apparated to Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place?

The old man easily noticed the bright colored Phoenix standing absolutely still in the hallway, and began to approach, causing Harry to back away while his feathers ruffled instinctively, turning his body to protect the broken wing. Dumbledore paused when he was close enough to examine without touching, his eyes locking with Harry's though the bird immediately turned away, looking for an escape.

What an interesting turn of events, he thought dryly. He'd gone from nearly dying at the Dursley's, to being in the rather surprising care of Tom Marvolo Riddle, to actually hiding from Dumbledore! Yet, the Phoenix lacked any will to change the situation. He had no desire to leave Tom or Malfoy Manor.

Dumbledore's attention on him suddenly waned when Remus and Sirius' duel turned down their hallway, the duo overwhelmed with the sheer number of Death Eaters attacking. The Headmaster breezed by Harry, intent on helping, and the bird quickly slipped away again, trotting down the hall only to hear a familiar hiss calling him.

::_Come here, birdie,_:: Nagini beckoned, and Harry followed her voice, finding her waiting at Tom's open bedroom door. He slipped in the room, and Nagini nosed the door shut once the long train of a tail was inside.

::_What's going on?_:: he asked, even though he knew.

::_Master's enemies are attacking_,:: she hissed in disdain. ::_He wants to take us some place safe_.:: A warm feeling settled in his chest at the idea of Tom wanting to move him to a safe location, though Harry quickly pushed the strange feelings away, emerald eyes flickering to the form that apparated into the room not seconds later.

::_Come, we must go_,:: Tom spoke, reaching down to scoop Harry up while Nagini slithered around the wizard's body. The Phoenix felt the familiar pull at his body before being shoved through space, scenery changing from Tom's bedroom to that of a comfortable sitting room. The Dark Lord waited for his familiar to untwine herself from his body before moving Harry to a plush chair, absently giving the Phoenix a warm pet on the head which succeeded in flustering and confusing the bird.

::_I have to go back_,:: he said.

::_You can't!_:: Harry objected before thinking about it. Tom turned to look at him, and Harry stayed silent, wondering why such a reaction had just spouted from his beak. Why couldn't he go back? Or rather, why didn't Harry _want_ him to go back? He could easily say he didn't want anything to happen to his friends, but that didn't seem like the right answer to the boy. Could it be he didn't want Tom to get hurt? His mind quickly pointed out how ridiculous that was—he was the Dark Lord, hardly anyone was capable of harming him—if anyone, it would be Dumbledore. However, Harry was skeptical the old man had it in him.

::_And why not? Does it have to do with the prophecy?_:: the wizard demanded. Harry wanted to say yes, but knew the Legilimency would catch his lie.

::_…No_.:: Finding himself flustered again, Harry huffed his feathers before sitting comfortably on the chair he was set upon. Tom eyed him for a minute longer, before taking note that Harry was not going to say more, and apparating from the house.

Harry sighed, tucking his broken wing gently against him, thankful for the high body heat and being unable to feel the injured appendage. He wasn't sure how long Tom was going to be gone, and he wasn't up to exploring the house—immediately a nap came to mind. He wasn't allowed to nap at the Dursleys, and at Hogwarts, there was simply no time. Now, he could spend all day napping if he really wanted to. Getting comfortable, he dozed off, barely aware of Nagini wrapping her long body around the chair before wrapping around him, keeping his company.

The Phoenix startled awake a short time later, hearing the crack of someone apparating in, but knowing it could only be Tom. The Wizard wasn't in the room, though, and Nagini, who was wrapped around Harry, hissed nonsense before beginning to uncoil and slither from the room rather quickly for a large serpent. Curious and concerned, Harry dropped down off the chair and followed after her, worried perhaps Tom was hurt or maybe it wasn't even Tom at all.

Nagini led the way to what Harry could only guess was Tom's bedroom, and what he saw made his heart tighten in his chest and his breathing hitch.

The Dark Lord was seated on the floor with his back against the wall, robes damp with blood and clinging to his muscular build while the thick, red liquid began to pool around him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Wow, this took forever to get out! I apologize to all of those who are subscribed to this story, but here's the next chapter! And, once again, thank you thank you thank you to every one who has reviewed! It's made my day~**

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At several moments of his life, Harry Potter wondered how he would defeat the most powerful dark wizard to date. What spell did one use, without touching the dark magic that tainted Tom Riddle so long ago? The Avada Kedavra spell couldn't be used unless it's caster meant it, and the teenager wasn't sure he could ever really hate someone to the point his magical core would accept the use of something so dark. Lord Voldemort did kill his parents, yes, and it was more than enough of a reason to hate the man, but Harry wasn't sure he could take another life, not without severe repercussions to his psyche.

The perfect moment to end the war had fallen in his lap. As he carried his small bird body into the bedroom, his emerald eyes fell on the slumped form of Tom Riddle, the man seeming to still appear graceful even in unconsciousness. He was bleeding, the thick liquid beginning to pool on the ground beneath him from an unseen injury, and Harry knew very well that the wizard was likely to die. No one had come with him, and Nagini certainly didn't know how to help nor was she capable.

How easy would it be, to just allow Tom to bleed to death? It would mean the end of the war between the Dark and the Light. It would mean no more innocent deaths. It would mean Harry could carry on as a normal boy and not have to worry about a psychotic wizard actively seeking his death.

Yet, he couldn't envision himself doing it—it made him queasy to think about just letting someone die when he could have done something to help. It was his worst enemy, one he'd likely have to face in battle one day and strike down then if not now. He could almost see it; standing in front of Tom, wand raised in preparation of a duel, with the lingering thoughts of 'I could have let you bleed to death all those years ago.' It was wrong, his heart argued, to just let the Dark Lord bleed to death when he could have helped.

There was, however, the question of what exactly could he do. He had no hands, no magical capabilities, and even if he did—he knew nothing of healing magic. Of course, he was a phoenix; they themselves had natural healing abilities—it was just a matter of Harry figuring out how to use them. He needed to cry; but in the given situation, he didn't exactly feel upset.

::We should move him to the bed,:: he started, watching Nagini flicker her tongue over the man's cheek. The serpent hissed her agreement, before slowly coiling her long body along Tom's, dragging him towards the bed in a manner that would amuse Harry at a later date. It took Nagini a while, but she got him in the bed, sprawled out over the blanket, and the phoenix was quick to jump up and join them. He needed to see the injury, needed to know where to direct his tears (which he had yet to figure out how to produce). To remedy that, Harry made use of the natural defenses a phoenix had, his talons and beak. Tearing the fabric was easy, and finding the injury even easier; a long gash marred Tom's stomach, deep enough for blood to gush out.

::I need to cry,:: he said suddenly.

::This is no time for your emotions!:: Nagini hissed.

::No! My tears will heal him!:: the Phoenix snapped back. He looked around the room, trying to think, before an idea came to him as his eyes fell on the large serpent. ::Bite my tail.::

She stared at him for the longest minute, before shifting her powerful jaws near his tail. Harry couldn't watch, turning his eyes away quickly before suddenly squawking out in pain. Nagini hadn't been gentle, sinking her fangs into the flesh, spilling blood. Just as he had hoped, tears weld in his eyes, and he didn't try to hold them back. Immediately, Harry leaned over the wound on the wizard's abdominals and let the tears run over his beak, dripping down to the injury. He watched as it began to stitch back together until Tom's skin was smooth and flawless, disturbed only by dried blood.

Harry was silent for a long minute, thinking on what he'd done. The man was Lord Voldemort; he had killed innocent people, tortured even more, and was intent on taking over the Wizarding World, probably without the best interest of muggle-borns in mind. Harry Potter was destined by prophecy to kill him, stop his terror, and free the world of Dark Magic. Yet, he had gone and done the complete opposite. After spending several days in the Dark Lord's care, the teenager found his opinion of Tom had changed, drastically. Tom took care of him, bandaging him, feeding him, carrying him around and allowing him to be in close proximity. Harry had seen the way he treated some of his Death Eaters, the ones closest to him, and he'd seen how the man was when no one was looking.

He was slowly beginning to realize, while Tom was far from perfect, Harry didn't want to kill him.

The brightly colored phoenix moved to a pillow, settling down on it and getting comfortable while Nagini curled alongside Tom. Now, all they had to do, was wait for the man to wake up, and hope there were no further injuries they could not see. Several hours passed, with Harry drifting in and out of consciousness, before the wizard shifted slightly, red eyes cracking open.

The phoenix watched closely, noticing how confusion seemed to plague the man for several seconds until he turned his head, seeing Harry propped comfortably on the pillow. Sitting up, the Dark Lord inspected his torn robes, and bloodied stomach, but seemed pleased that the injury was gone.

::Who tended to me?:: he requested.

::I did,:: Harry answered after several seconds of silence. Tom paused from shifting off the bed to look at the fragile phoenix, before a question came to his lips.

::Your tears?:: he asked lowly. Harry merely nodded his head. He stood, stretching slightly before disappearing into the bathroom, leaving the phoenix with the sleeping serpent. Only seconds passed before Harry heard the familiar sound of the shower turning on, and he sighed in turn. An odd relieved feeling spread through him, making the teenager realize that he had been worried. Harry Potter had actually been worried the Dark Lord wouldn't survive.

When Tom returned, he wore only a towel around his waist, light water rivulets running down his bare chest and making Harry look away almost instantaneously, flustered. He only dared to look up again when the man came back to the bed, fully clothed, and looked down at Harry, crossing his arms over his chest.

::Does this mean your half of the prophecy is fulfilled?:: he asked.

::Would you get rid of me if it were?:: the phoenix asked in turn, genuinely curious. The question seemed to catch the man off guard, though his face remained stoic, and he gave it thought.

::I do not think so, no.:: he answered. ::I've grown used to having your company.:: For reasons unknown to Harry, it pleased him to hear that.

::Who injured you?:: It was a way for him to dodge the prophecy question, though it seemed Tom was smarter than that, his eyes narrowing at the phoenix for a second before he decided to let it go.

::Dumbledore. It was a foolish mistake on my part, not to happen again,:: he explained without interest, before sitting elegantly on the edge of the bed.

::I assume you won the overall battle?:: He was fishing for the details of the battle, and wanted desperately for Tom to bite. Dread was slowly sinking his heart, the mere thought of those he once considered friends and family to have slain disturbing him. What disturbed him more, however, was the little question at the back of his mind: if someone he loved was killed, would he hate Tom? Would he regret his choice of saving the Dark Lord?

::It was nothing more than a waste of time, I assure you,:: he explained bitterly. ::The Order has discovered where I had been operating, rending the Malfoy Manor a wasted resource. I can't even say we cut down the Order's numbers, either. They came in looking for Harry Potter, no doubt, and left empty handed when they did not discover him.::

Relief once again passed through him, though he kept silent. No one was hurt. Not Sirius, not Remus, not Tom. Were they the only important ones to him? Moreover, was Tom important to him? The Dark Lord laid back in the bed, and the Phoenix watched as his eyes slid closed. Harry didn't say anything more, instead choosing to settle down and allow Tom the rest he really needed.

Harry was woken the next morning by Tom getting out of bed. For several moments, the Phoenix didn't move, instead drifting in and out of sleep while the Dark Lord showered and changed again, before letting out a shocked squawk when the wizard grabbed him. He squirmed for a moment, before settling down and letting Tom carry him into the bathroom, the man wearing a slightly amused smirk on his face.

As the Dark Lord began to remove the bandages, and silver blood dripped onto the counter, he apparently decided that Harry was in need of a bath—and that he needed to help. Instead of the shower, Tom ran the water in the sink and then moved the phoenix into the basin. Much to his mortification, the man grabbed a cloth and began to gently scrub Harry down, careful of open injuries.

::This is… embarrassing,:: he hissed to the wizard, refusing to look at the man. Tom snorted, but didn't stop the tender washing. Harry couldn't even complain all that much—the Dark Lord was showing him a gentleness that the bird didn't think he could ever possess. It was like a nice massage.

When he was rinsed of the soap suds, but utterly drenched, Tom wrapped him in a fluffy towel and set to drying him. Harry could help but to wonder what the man would do if he found out he wasn't just a phoenix, but rather the Dark Lord's greatest enemy. He'd probably try to smother him with the towel. When he was dry enough, Tom rebandaged the wounds and splinted his right wing, before picking him up and carrying him down the hall to the man's study.

For a while, the wizard just puttered around, pacing here and there before looking at something on his desk. Harry alternated between watching him and napping (why was he so tired?) before he realized the man had invited someone else there. The insane cackle that could belong to no one else but Bellatrix echoed into the room, startling the phoenix awake before she was bowing to Tom. Harry grumbled to himself, shifting on the chair but otherwise not acknowledging her existence.

"Bellatrix, I wish for you to retrieve the Hufflepuff Cup from your vault, immediately," he said simply, not bothering to even look in her direction.

"Of course, my Lord," she purred. He dismissed her seconds later, and she left the room. Harry's curiosity was piqued; why did the Dark Lord want a cup belonging to Helga Hufflepuff? Since he wasn't figuring the answer out on his own, the phoenix asked. Tom seemed to debate whether or not telling the bird was a good idea; Harry waited patiently, watching the man with dark emerald eyes.

::It is my Horcrux. One of them.::

::What's a …Horcrux?:: He'd never heard the word before in any of his classes at Hogwarts, or saw it in any textbook.

::A fragment of my soul. It's how I attain immortalit::

Harry didn't say anymore, mostly because he was digesting the fact that the Dark Lord had just revealed how to kill him. If the Horcrux were destroyed, would Tom be too? It sounded like the man had more than one, and while the phoenix wanted to ask just how many he had, Harry knew that probably wouldn't be a good idea—he didn't want to draw suspicion. So, he chose a less dangerous question.

::Are they in danger?:: he asked. It was obvious Tom was collecting the things—did Dumbledore know? Was Dumbledore working to collect or destroy them?

::No. I wish to collect them, however, to ensure they are not destroyed.:: Harry nodded his gangly bird head. ::One was removed from its original hiding place, and because of such, I am going to have to locate it. You will be accompanying me.::

::A-All right. I don't know how much help I can be, broken wing and all…::

::That is irrelevant. Tell me, Evans, if you were to steal something from a Dark Lord, and hide it, where would you put it?::

It felt like a trick question. ::I wouldn't steal something from a Dark Lord, I'm not an idiot.:: Tom looked pleased with his answer.

::Let's pretend, then, your intelligence is rather low.::

The bird was quiet for a long minute, debating. If he was going to hide something that he knew the Dark Lord would kill him for, he'd want to put it somewhere that the man would never think of—because surely Tom would torture whoever it was for the location, probably end up killing them, but if Harry was especially good, not get the location. Or, if he did get the location, Harry would want to make sure the Dark Lord had a hell of a time trying to get the thing. But what would he trust with protecting it?

::I'd put it in a Dragon's nest.:: Tom blinked, staring at him for a long minute.

::For low intelligences, that is rather genius.:: he commented. Harry didn't say anything while the man seemed to think it through.

::Well, it seems we will be paying a visit to a few Dragons nests.::


	7. Chapter 7

I apologize profusely: this is not a chapter update.

This story is going on hiatus in light of being more aggressive in banning stories with mature content. I had planned for this story to contain mature material, but would prefer not to have the entire thing torn down because of it.

Instead, I plan to wait until I have a verified account with Archive of our Own (AO3), to continue. Unfortunately, the wait list is quite long and they estimate February before I can make a contribution.

I want to thank everyone who has subscribed to this story and left comments, it means a lot to me and I hope you'll all continue to read this when I get it posted on AO3!


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